How do we mourn, celebrate, bereate, complain?
How are we born, mature, dominate or reign?
What are the metaphors for lust and love?
How are we differentiated below and above?
These are the stoppers, the bells, the hoops
Without a referee, a cheerleader or a coach
We learn to notice, to respond, to approach.
Before we toss our hat or rope
Let's be sure we understand our groups.
Is her smile an invitation or a smirk?
Does she think you're hot, or a jerk?
Is she embarrassed by your wink?
Does she even think?
Begin with yourself.
Are you the Alpha in your mind's eye?
Do you encourage others to give a try?
Do you say 'Tell me more...'
Or do you just go on and on
A total bore?
Is dating how much can you take?
Or is it 'What do I have to share? '
Am I being fair? Do I care?
The risk of eating a peach
Is replaced by quiet walks upon the beach.
Does jazz turn you on?
Can you dislike the blues?
Ignore the evening news?
Does your shi-tzu attend the spa?
Interview this person carefully and you begin to see
No. She is not like me.
She really does like to cook.
She has written a book.
She has perfume in her breakfast nook.
She unplugs her phone.
And eats celery and peanut butter alone.
She's not in a rush to get hooked up.
No expensive wine, no manicured nails.
No French snails. No evening sails.
She laughs out loud and burps her Coke.
Sometimes she is known to smoke.
Her favorite novel is not on the best sellers' list.
It's one she wrote as a cruise ship joke
The year her amputee veteran husband took his life.
No, she doesn't miss him-he had been absent too long.
She longs for the children she never had.
She took the boat to find herself
And learned she wasn't missing.
She wrote of love, making out, kissing.
Then she painted the scene for the cover
With herself and her fictional lover.
A little of Gone With the Wind
A lot of star-crossed plot.
She reads it to herself.
For now, it's all she's got.
But she may write an ad for the personal page.
Who would she attract, she wonders.
No one of my age.
When her first response comes back,
She thinks she recognizes the voice.
The same cowboy cum construction boss
Who gave her her first bridge to cross
Thirty years before, when she was slim and blonde and blind
He's still answering the ads, touting himself as tall and strong and a little bad
Needing the right handling to make him settle down.
She cannot believe her ears.
The desire for a lonesome wolf has long disappeared.
She has less time to hunt.
This one will have to slip through the cracks
Of bye gone fantasies.
Now, she limits her romance to the novel she has coined
She wouldn't call herself jaded
She just appreciates a meal
Not the pantry being raided.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.